


'59 Sound

by samanthahirr



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Homophobia, M/M, Motorcycles, Racism, Romance, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hears the first rumor at graduation. The name comes from a few rows back, whispers escaping hurried hands: <i>Adam Lambert is back.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	'59 Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Gaslight Anthem song [Miles Davis & The Cool](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0YDaoAlIXU), off the album "The '59 Sound." 
> 
> Beta by idahophoenix, akavertigo, and cinaea. With very special thanks to idahophoenix for her invaluable help researching the attitudes and prejudices of the time.

He hears the first rumor at graduation.

The name comes from a few rows back, whispers escaping hurried hands: _Adam Lambert is back_. The syllables are weighed down with sweat and trembling anticipation by the time they reach him. Kris ducks his head and tugs at the tie too-tight around his neck. Slouched between his classmates' shoulders, he fists his hands around nothing and waits to hear his own name.

At the church social afterward, he hears it again, the past sliding smoothly between boasts of the future. (Who has a secretarial job lined up in Little Rock; who is going to work on the county dam; who is going to get a degree at the University.) But that name from years ago, the one they never stopped saying, turns cheeks red with excitement and anger. The name spreads from one parishioner to the next, lingering sticky on lips and skin in the late afternoon heat.

He and his father sit in the living room after dinner, watching Private Jody McCrea promote the modern Army on _Country Style, USA_. His father's feet tap to the Nashville beat and the memory of marches under a dark green canopy. He smiles at Kris, certain his son will follow in his footsteps.

In the kitchen, his mother is tied to the phone with a succession of neighbors. Kris knows the stories they won't speak of, the ones that drove an 18-year-old Adam to leave town after his own graduation three years ago. Stories about indecency. About perversion. The rumors have only gotten worse since Adam left.

His mother, who had spoken Adam's name daily with love, tries to soothe the churning tide again. She's certain it isn't that bad. He had been a neighbor, a friend to her eldest. She's certain he hasn't become… _that kind_.

Kris watches the uniforms on the television and doesn't correct either of them.

 

 

He sits in the dark of his bedroom, playing his father's old Gibson flattop. Soft chords tumble out, echoes of melodies formed years ago on his front porch with an older boy. Two voices making up songs night after night, making ambitious plans. Kris holds the guitar, calluses brushing over steel strings, and lets the songs come again.

A pebble hits his open window frame and bounces off into the night. Kris yanks on his shoes and climbs out the window without hesitation. He clambers down the roofline by feel until he's perched at the edge of the porch and then braces his hands and lowers himself down. Strong arms wrap around his thighs and ease him the rest of the way. Kris's hands fall on stiff leather, and he looks up into a face obscured by darkness.

Even without light, he knows that smile.

Adam presses a finger to Kris's lips and grabs his hand and runs, tugging Kris after him across the yard, down the street.

Kris gasps for breath, laughter trapped in his throat. He slings himself recklessly onto the back of Adam's motorcycle, his arms wrapped around Adam. Adam squeezes his hands and then twists the throttle, kicking off the engine and shooting them forward into the blackness, only a headlight illuminating their path.

The drive is wild.

He feels like he's falling, about to pitch to the ground at every turn. The hot, humid air snaps at his bare arms as they drive fast, faster. His throat is tight, his heart racing the engine under him, and Kris ducks his head, burrows his fingers in unfamiliar leather, and tries not to think at all.

 

 

When Adam stops the bike, he has to squeeze Kris's cramped hands to untangle them. Kris peers over Adam's shoulder at a roadhouse lot packed with cars and motorcycles. The night's sounds are drowned out by the echoes of wind throbbing in Kris's ears. He laughs into the silence and climbs off the bike. His legs shake.

In the harsh yellow floodlight, Kris sees three years written over Adam's face. He doesn't seem so tall—Kris had his growth spurt two years ago—but in every other way he's more than he was. Dark hair gelled high like a television star, shoulders back, chin up. Kris hadn't seen the changes through the written word, and he shivers with surprise.

Adam takes a step forward, black boots crunching in gravel. He runs his fingers through Kris's hair, smoothing out the worst of the wind. Adam stares down at him as his hand ruffles slowly over Kris's scalp, a habit of their youth. Kris doesn't know what Adam is seeing now, but he hopes it isn't that little kid curled around a too-big guitar.

Kris's fingers clench and release slowly, pain easing with the stretch.

Hollering erupts from the building. Adam steps back and hooks his hands in his belt. Kris follows his gaze to the Coloreds crowded around the open side-door of the roadhouse, peering eagerly inside. And then he hears it, an electric guitar, an upper-register wave of excitement.

Adam slips out of his jacket and folds it over his arm. He tips his head to the front door, and Kris nods and follows.

The roadhouse is wide and shallow, stage lights pouring onto a bandstand and five musicians in trousers and checked sport coats. A crowd of young people clap and cheer as the song ends, and it's instinctive to join them, to join in. Adam leads the way to the bar and buys them two beers. The next song starts, and Kris walks into the back of the crowd, drawn to the lights and sounds, the power of it.

Glistening arms rub and press against his as the dancers move. Kris's feet tap, his hips sway, his knees bounce. He picks up the chorus and sings, grinning at this taste of the world Adam wants to show him.

But when he looks up at his friend, Adam's smile is hard. His arms are tucked tight to his sides even as his fingers keep time against the bottle. His exuberance is tempered, his body stiff with tension. Kris's smile falters, and he turns to reassess the crowd.

Jeans and t-shirts, skirts and blouses fill the room, laughter and singing, everyone caught up in joy. Everyone sees them, but no one _watches_ , not the bartender, not the girls and boys dancing and jostling for room. Adam is invisible in the crowd, safe.

But Kris sees.

He understands what one incautious touch would do.

The beer is dull and thick in his mouth, in his stomach. Kris looks to Adam again, who shrugs and turns back to the stage. Kris does the same. The dancing seems distant now, the music as inaccessible as Adam.

All he can think about is the proud jut of Adam's chin next to him, the guarded smile.

He puts his beer on the counter and walks out into the night, past the motorcycle that had carried him from home, and into the shadow of hickory trees. Adam's steps fall fast behind him. When Kris turns beneath the branches, Adam is already wearing his jacket, hands shoved in pockets, and jaw set warily against him.

Kris breathes in the warm air and steps into Adam, forcing locked knees to stumble and give, until Adam's arms wrap around him, cautiously light. Kris buries his face against Adam's shirt and breathes in the sweat dampening Adam's t-shirt. When his lips brush Adam's skin, he feels Adam's shaky inhalation.

Tomorrow and the next day—Kris can't imagine that far, to what his days will look like. But he knows when his family looks, they'll find the postmarks from New York. And if they can't understand, at least they'll know.

He locks his arms around Adam and clenches his hands in black leather, twelve hundred miles pounding through his knuckles.


End file.
